[Note to all Pedants: All
punctuation, capitalization and "mistakes" herein are fully intended, because
Samuel H. Dunski is a cantankerous bastard and possesses a poetic license. Legal
Notice]

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Dunski Who?

Samuel H. Dunski—considered by many
itinerate intellectuals and loquacious degenerates to be the Supreme Allied
Commander of the International Poetry Scene in the 21st century—was born into
humble circumstances in Hora, Iowa, in 1950. His parents, Bartholomew and
Esmeralda Dunski, moved him to Southern California when he was ten, where they
settled into the sunny West Coast middle-class lifestyle. He began his
illustrious writing career at public school, considered by his classmates as a
recluse and iconoclastic troublemaker. Nonetheless, he was a leader among his
fellow students, and excelled in such sports as backgammon, chess and fondling
his female peers.

Illustrious Beginnings

At the age of thirty-two, he abandoned college and ventured forth into the real
world where he sallied into his career as spot welder. Soon after this he
started his serious poetry and short stories; all said to have been instigated
by a mysterious crises that brought him to the brink of mental disaster and
near-total breakdown. To recover, he turned to drugs, booze, candy bars—and
poetry.

As he rose through the ranks of the everyday, average, run-of-the-mill,
chained-to-the-streets, can't-write-shit-to-save-their-ass poets, his work began
to shine beyond them. His radiant prose lifted him, like Prometheus, high above
the clouds and lesser lights of intellectually-hidebound poet-wimps and
wannabes. Dunski's novels and books of poetry were beginning to garner serious
praise from the near-established arbiters of poetic taste, and the critics.

Waging the
War of Words

He figuratively pummeled and smashed and
ground to little itsy bits the skulls of his fellow literary rivals with his
acute wit and unique, philosophical observations. Dunski turned that smelly,
stinking, heap of life which is our lives, our everyday trivia, into a
scintillating fairyland. His effect on contemporary poetry resembled a
blood-soaked, carnage-ridden car wreck on Interstate 405.

He became a sedentary nomad, moving from apartment to apartment, in the greater
Los Angeles area. During this time, Dunski's prowess as a "cherche la femme"
kind-of-guy and seminal lover of the opposite sex (that is, women) gained him a
reputation that extended from the alleys of the notorious Venice Beach to the
mansions of Beverly Hills, including the clandestine garment district,
particularly near the corner of 4th and Hope Street. His prodigious output of
novels, short stories and poetry came at a thundering roll off of his word
processor like sweat off the back of a charging rhinoceros in heat.

Fortune Smiles on the
Worthy

Upon meeting the scurrilous Nathan Nil, a publisher who took a chance on his
first book of poetry, Words & Turds—his life took an upward swing with
the sky-rocketing sales of the book. His fans grew legion after the premiere of
Bullets And Barf especially on the East Coast, West Coast and, curiously,
in Sumatra. Fame and fortune were fast approaching, like a red-headed banshee
with purple lipstick, the shade of the fires of Hell. His first Puletzer was
awarded in 1988 for the twisted, inimitable Death crawls over my skin like A
Large, hairy, Green Spider that eats her young and then retches them up Again.
His successive works made fortunes for him and his publishing house, and were
greeted with open arms and wallets and condoms by the critics and poetry-reading
public alike. His second Puletzer was awarded for I Was A Male Prostitute in
a Balinese Brothel.

Flush with success, he moved to Malibu to
gorge upon his long-anticipated feast of high consumption. His cup did floweth
over, spillith down upon the sandy ground, and oft ruined the Chinese carpets of
the mansion he had leasethed—for which he did eventually loseth his substantial
security deposit. He soon became disillusioned with the lowlifes of highlife in
this sunny paradise and his poetry suffered an irreversible downturn. He could
write nothing in these circumstances. Zip. Nada. Zilche. Desperate, he
abandoned the Shangri-La of beach life for a return to his beloved city.
Unfortunately, he was broke and homeless until rescued by his long lost
girlfriend, Juanita Grabowski.

Twists and Turns along the
Way

Dunski proceeded to live out his erstwhile existence with Juanita while he
plumbed the depths of his residual, fragmentary soul. He found himself unsure of
his literary talents, and he worried that his new work was insubstantial. To
bring his writing to new heights he dove deep beneath the existential abyss of
the meanings of life and death. He pushed the limits of his luck and the
envelope of chance. That is, he went off the deep end. Even so, after his
problematic and controversial demise, Big Sammy D. immediately entered the
annals of the literary pantheon.

He is sorely missed by true poetry fans, as
well as the many stunning, bitchy, head-strong women from all walks of life whom
he had befriended, and with whom he had shared his bed and other satyristic,
poetic enjoyments. There was even talk, at one time, of a statue to be erected
in Dunski's honor in an LA city park—a site highly favored by a motley
collection of indigenous tramps and winos. But the notion was abandoned when the
erudite city council realized the money expended on such an enterprise would
diminish the very coffers supporting their city-funded, fact-finding junkets to
the Bahamas, Hawaii and Paris.

There once
was Greatness in our Midst

And so, we stand in mute tribute, our mouths
shut, our eyes clamped, to that one, great light of literary and poetic
sensibility that chanced to grace this vast and vacuous, cultural no-man's
land—Los Angeles—for a brief while, and then was hailed no more: Samuel H.
Dunski, Poet Extraordinaire. Long may he wave over the city of perpetual smoke
(that is, we mean, the multi-hued smokes of many kinds). Big Sammy, we won’t
forget you. We have you forever. “Sam Dunski Lives.”

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